chosen for the lucky number
by irnan
Summary: Gawain Robards takes a trip to Godric's Hollow, because unlike poor old Rufus he is not the sort to leave a live dragon out of his calculations.  He might, however, be the sort to tickle a sleeping one.


_this is a disclaimer._

_**AN:** outside!pov, slightlytraumatised!trio, takes place not long after "king's ankus", title from Tolkien._

**chosen for the lucky number**

"Look, you have to have rose trellises," said a man's voice, somewhere between amused and determined.

"Make 'em strong enough to climb down," said another firmly.

"What," said a woman, "so Teddy can climb out of his bedroom window when he's old enough?"

"Exactly," said the second voice again.

"Harry, that's ridiculous."

Gawain Robards was having a little trouble with the back gate. It was not, he felt, his fault as such. The wood was old and rotten and swollen, and it was sticking; moreover, the wards, while strong, lacked a certain fine-tuning, a certain polish. They had been cast efficiently and easily, but they had not been cast with an eye to possible unexpected visitors who were, well, friendly.

_Look_, he'd said to Kingsley, _I appreciate you offering me my job back, and I want to take it, but you've already heaved Potter and his friends into positions of not inconsiderable authority in the Office, and I want to meet them first_.

It was not, he'd felt, an unreasonable request. He and Hera had already been determined to leave if the higher levels of the Ministry became infiltrated; killing Lestrange had just hurried that decision along. They'd skipped across the Irish Sea to some distant village in Antrim with Lance and his lot and had stayed there until it was almost too late; all Gawain knew about Potter and his friends was hearsay and rumour. Hera had taken his statements about the Battle of Hogwarts and she thought he was honest but, in her own words, _out of it, Gawain, completely out of it, detached one minute and cheerful the next_.

All things considered that was hardly surprising, but still. And now Gawain was being defeated by an eighteen-year-old unqualified wizard's garden gate.

He'd leave that bit out when he told Hera about this this evening.

"It's not ridiculous," said Harry Potter's voice. "It's..."

"Indulgent," said the woman - Hermione Granger, of course. "Called spoiling him. Called, in fact, asking for trouble."

"Look, if the Dursleys had ever had a rose trellis a lot of things might have been different," said Potter, and Gawain could hear the grin in his voice.

"I doubt that," Granger said freezingly. "Ron -"

"Hermione," said the first voice - Weasley's. "Roses are nice. And pretty. And... other good things. The trellis is an additional advantage."

"You two want to get to climb down it your bloody selves!" exclaimed Granger.

"Well," said Weasley. "_Yes_, Hermione."

Gawain couldn't help it; he laughed. Didn't every kid dream of climb-able rose trellises? He gave the garden gate another push; it swung open, somewhat to his own surprise, and he found himself looking at the business end of three wands.

"Gawain Robards," he said, holding up his hands. "Erm, sorry about barging in on you like this."

"Course," said Potter, and lowered his wand. "Kingsley said you were coming."

"There's a front gate as well, you know," said Weasley.

"I reckoned so," said Gawain, with what he thought was admirable aplomb. "But I Apparated into the back lane and couldn't see a way round."

"There's a path, but it's a bit overgrown," said Potter. "Round the left side of the house. Not sure it's been used since - Mum and Dad - died."

Barely noticeable hitches. Died, not were killed, as if refusing to think about that aspect. Gawain supposed he understood that; but why live in this house then?

Not that it was any of his business. On the other hand, if it affected Potter's mental stability, it probably was.

Anyway: Granger stuck her wand in the back pocket of her jeans and brushed her hands together. "Tea, Mr Robards?"

"Yes, please," said Gawain.

Inside the house was just as much of a mess as the garden: cluttered with furniture and woodworking tools and spellbooks on home improvement, covered in dust sheets.

"Leaks," said Potter when he saw Gawain looking at them, and gave an easy shrug. _Leaks _was one way of putting it; the last time Gawain had been here the place hadn't had much of a roof, and only three walls. That it was already semi-habitable after they'd been here scarce a month was impressive.

He was seized with a sudden urge to ask Potter if he'd found any of James and Lily's things in the debris, and was promptly disgusted with himself for thinking of it.

The kitchen table was a fair size, but the chairs were still a bit rickety. Granger didn't so much put the kettle on as simply light a blue-flamed fire under it with a flick of her wand. Gawain was a bit surprised that they actually had more than three mugs. He didn't let that show. The three of them clattered around the kitchen for a minute or two, producing biscuits from unlikely places and getting in each other's way, not that any of them seemed to actually mind when they did so. It gave him a chance to look at them properly for the first time.

Weasley was the tallest. He'd cut his ginger hair a bit lackadaisically, and he'd probably be lanky for as long as he lived. Freckles, and a long nose; deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His brother had died, Gawain remembered suddenly, and saw the traces of that grief in the bruises under the boy's eyes and a subdued kind of undertone to his gestures. Gawain had seen all their OWL scores: Weasley was good but not brilliant, and Hera had called him level-headed - as if it cost him an effort, as if he was making up for something by being as sensible and by keeping it together as much as he could.

Granger next. Frizzy hair and a firm look; she didn't, at first glance, seem the type to put up with the kind of nonsense the conversation outside had made Gawain suspect Potter and Weasley of being more than capable of, but obviously there was more to her than that. She calculated, he thought. She liked plans, and set goals; she liked having the big picture. He remembered the way she'd gone about modifying her parents' memories and wanted to shudder. It spoke of a coolness he would not have been able to demonstrate. Excellent trait for an Auror - if she could keep it up in the heat of a battle as well as in advance of one. There were bruises under her eyes, too, and her skin was very pale. Last year's tan (if she'd had one) had leached out of it over the winter, but it was more than that. Sickness and nightmares, probably. Her file said she'd recently had a bout of the kind of flu you fell prey to when you were so exhausted you just couldn't fight it anymore.

Potter - was watching him back. Gawain almost jumped, and though he just about caught himself he must have given some sign, because those green eyes crinkled at the corners in the same look James had used to get when he'd put one over on you so off-handedly you'd hardly noticed. He had the hair and the features, too; Gawain had seen the photos, and had seen him go from scrawny to lean to painfully thin - a state the three of them were just beginning to come out of now. But James' easy laugh plainly hadn't been passed on, nor Lily's far-too-open, easily read expressions.

"I knew your Mum and Dad," Gawain said abruptly. "Not well. Through Frank and Alice Longbottom."

Potter's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Were they friends?"

"Yes," said Gawain. "Don't ask me how. Frank was usually pretty serious. But James could make him grin." He thought about this for a minute. "Actually, James could make just about anyone grin. Alice is his cousin, you know, third four times removed or something like that. She's a McKinnon, but I think he was closer to Marli."

"Marlene McKinnon?"

"Yes. Ravenclaw extraordinaire." Gawain smiled. If he'd been ten years younger and not already married... "I think I only met Lily - twice, three times? She used to call him Prongs, but God alone knows why."

Potter's guarded face broke into the first smile Gawain had seen on him, whether in photos or real life, and Gawain realised he had Lily's expressions after all. Also that he probably knew exactly why that had been James Potter's nickname; that made Gawain happy for him, just a bit.

He realised Weasley and Granger were smiling too, and gave himself a mental shake. He'd liked the Potters, but he wasn't here to feed their orphaned son scraps of half-forgotten information about them.

No, he was here to find out whether or not the boy was... what? Mad? Trustworthy? Traumatised?

"You know Kingsley's offered me my old job back," he said.

Potter straightened, and his mouth thinned again, the guarded look coming back to his face. "Yes. You left the country, didn't you?"

"I killed Lestrange," Gawain said bluntly. "Rabastan, the younger brother."

Shifting, glances. They were holding whole conversations with a look and a twitch of their fingers, Gawain was sure. He and Hera did that too. Did it make them respect him more, having killed Lestrange? He'd respect them less if it did.

"That almost makes you one of a kind," said Potter.

Gawain tried hard - and was proud of himself for succeeding - not to clench his fist.

"Most of the others who discovered pressing engagements abroad did it long before Scrimgeour died."

Relax. "I know," said Gawain. "I ran that office. A third of my people bolted, too many were killed, and the rest went over. If they've been in the office from Fudge's resignation through to today, I wouldn't advise trusting them."

"Nor would I."

"Kingsley's given you a lot of authority to do what you want with them."

"No," Granger said, immediately and sharply. "Kingsley's given us a lot of authority to plan and organise raids on suspected Death Eater strongholds."

Gawain grinned. "A lawyer already, Miss Granger."

"Sod you, Mr Robards," Granger snapped. "People have spent a great deal of time these last couple weeks trying to put words in our mouths."

Weasley looked at her sharply; Potter's eyebrows twitched upwards. Gawain got the impression she was rarely so... openly forceful.

"I understand," he said. "At least, I'm going to pretend I do. Look, whatever else you are, you're not stupid, you three. I won't take Kingsley up on his offer if I think you three are... untrustworthy. Put it like that. You're the darlings of the hour, _I'm_ not stupid enough to pick a fight there. And to be honest I don't have the energy. Not to mention that it would be a sign Kingsley's lost his mind entirely."

The kitchen fell silent - apart from the kettle, which came to the boil with a cheerful bubble and a shriek of steam. Granger turned the fire off as easily as she'd turned it on. They were looking at each other again.

Finally Weasley said, "I'm not sure if I'm insulted or not."

Potter grinned. Granger smiled. Gawain started to think it might work out after all.

"I know Kingsley's offered you all permanent places. I know Miss Granger's turned it down."

"Brains of the operation," said Weasley. "Wasted on field work."

"Otherwise known," Potter interjected, "as bossiness."

Granger stuck her tongue out at him.

"And Mr Weasley...?"

He shifted, moving his weight from foot to foot. Reluctant, and oddly uncomfortable. "Can I - I mean, for now, yes of course, with the raids and stuff. But permanently, let me, let me get back to you on that. If it's still open then." He laughed, slightly rueful, nervous. "I have... other things. There's other stuff I need to do."

"I understand that," said Gawain. His brother, probably. Well, Gawain would need time if Lance had died at Hogwarts, too. "Thank you. And Mr Potter..."

Potter had been distributing teabags and pouring hot water; he put the kettle down and his hand glanced up to his forehead to rub at the lightning scar, and as he did so Gawain saw the scars across the back of it that had bitten deep into his flesh:_ I must not tell lies_.

"I meant to walk away," he said. "I wanted to be an Auror when I was a kid."

Gods above, he was barely eighteen.

"But at the battle, you know, afterwards, I meant to... put it down and do something else. Play Quidditch, or - I don't know, run a bloody pub." He laughed. "But then, when Kingsley asked..."

"It's never as easy to do as your mind makes it sound," said Gawain.

"No, it isn't."

"And doubly difficult when you know you're good at it."

Potter raised his eyebrows again. "Am I?"

Gawain threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, blimey, yes. You three - what you've done. And I don't just mean You-Know-Who. I mean all of it. I've spent a month interviewing kids who fought Death Eaters and Dark Wizards because Harry Potter would have done it, I've read reports about the kind of security measures you waltzed past to break into the Ministry twice, I've seen what you did to Gringotts. I've never known anyone pass through my office who would have had the nerve to do half the things you've done at the ages you were when you did it." He paused to watch their reactions; Granger had ducked her head so her hair hid her face but Gawain thought she was blushing, and Weasley's ears were red, and Potter looked a bit stunned. People had spent about two months now being lavishly grateful, Gawain realised, but probably no one had yet managed to tell them just how impressive they truly were.

He hadn't meant to sound admiring, but it was sort of inevitable.

"James and Marli and Sirius Black might have done it. Probably Lily would have done it. The Prewett twins. Dorcas. Mad-Eye as well, although imagining him as ever having been younger than forty is a bit beyond my powers. A few others. But not many others; not many at all."

Potter crossed his arms over his chest and scuffed his boot on the tiles. "So you want us?"

Lacking in self-confidence he was not.

Gawain sighed. He looked at them again; he looked around the kitchen, considered the house and garden littered with the debris of rebuilding, thought of how easily those wards had been cast and how calmly they'd drawn their wands on him. He thought of nightmares and depression and lingering trauma, all the things Scrimgeour (and, he suspected, Dumbledore) had used to dismiss with a shrug and an attitude out of the nineteenth century. He thought of how he dealt with those things himself: Hera's laugh, and his brother's kids, and gardening. He thought of the files he'd read and the adolescents he'd spoken to, and that endless litany of_ Harry Ron and Hermione would have done it, someone had to do it, Harry Ron and Hermione weren't here, Harry Ron and Hermione taught me, Harry Ron and Hermione said_.

"Yes," he said. "Gods help me, I think I do."


End file.
